But now Gamache’s thoughts betrayed him. Once again the images of Fleming’s horrific offering exploded into his head. Gamache pushed, furiously shoving the pictures out of his mind. Across from him Fleming was watching closely, and now he saw what Gamache had taken pains to hide, was desperate to hide. His humanity.
“Why are you here?” Fleming snarled.
“To thank you, but also to warn you,” said Gamache, fighting to win back the advantage.
“Really? To thank me?” said Fleming.
“For your service and your silence,” said Gamache, and saw the creature pause.
“And the warning?”
Fleming’s voice had changed. The slight impediment had disappeared. The softness now sounded like quicksand. Gamache had hit on something, but he didn’t know what.
His mind raced over the case. Laurent, the missile launcher, the Whore of Babylon. Highwater. Ruth and Monsieur Béliveau. Al Lepage.
What else, what else?
The murder of Gerald Bull. Fleming had admitted to that. Gamache tossed it aside as done.
Fleming was staring at him, realization dawning that Gamache was a fraud, was afraid.
Gamache’s mind raced. Guillaume Couture, the real father of Project Babylon. Was there more? Gamache scrambled. What was he missing?
What warning could possibly be issued? What could a confined man have done?
And then he had it.
“She Sat Down and Wept,” he said, and saw Fleming’s face pale. “Why did you write it, John? Why did you send it to Guillaume Couture? What were you thinking, you little man?”
Gamache reached into his satchel and dropped the script, with a bang, onto the metal table.
Fleming unfolded one hand and caressed the title page with a finger that looked like a worm. Then a look of cunning crept into his face.
“You have no idea why I wrote this, do you?”
“If I didn’t, why would I be here?”
“If you did, you wouldn’t need to be here,” said Fleming. “I thought Guillaume Couture might appreciate the play. He gave me the plans, you know. Wanted nothing more to do with Project Babylon. I thought it poetic that the only clue to the whereabouts of the plans would rest with the father who abandoned them. Have you read it?”
“The play? I have.”
“And?”
“It’s beautiful.”
That surprised Fleming and he examined his visitor more closely.
“And it’s dangerous,” Gamache added, placing a steady hand on the play and dragging it toward himself, out of Fleming’s reach. “You should not have written it, John, and you sure as hell should never have sent it to Dr. Couture.”
“It frightens you, doesn’t it?” said Fleming.
“Is that why you did it?” said Gamache. “To try to frighten us? Was this”—he poked the script as though it was merde—“meant as a warning?”
“A reminder,” said Fleming.
“Of what?”
“That I’m still here, and I know.”
“Know what?”
As soon as the words escaped his mouth Gamache wished them back. But it was too late. He’d been wandering in the dark and now he’d walked off a cliff.
His only hope had been in keeping Fleming guessing, making him believe he knew more than he did. Was one of “them.” But with that question he’d given himself away.
The guard backed up against the door, and Beauvoir’s face went white. Gamache felt himself shoved in the chest by the force of Fleming’s personality. The back of the chair stopped him. Had it not, he had the overwhelming impression he’d have fallen, fallen. Straight to hell.
Armand Gamache had been in the presence of malevolence before. Wretched men and women who’d tried to exorcise their demons by placating them. Feeding them terrible crimes. But of course it only made them more monstrous.
But this was different. If Project Babylon had a flesh and blood equivalent, it was John Fleming. A weapon of mass destruction. Without thought, or conscience.
“Who are you?” Fleming demanded.
His gaze traveled over Gamache, taking in his face, his throat, his chest. His hair, his clothing, his hands. His wedding ring. “You’re not a cop. They have to identify themselves. Not a journalist. A professor writing a book on me perhaps? But no. Your interest isn’t academic, is it?” His eyes bored into Gamache. “It’s personal.”
Fleming sat back, and Gamache knew that he’d lost.
But it wasn’t over yet. Not for John Fleming. His fun had just begun. Fleming tilted his head to one side, coquettishly. It was grotesque.